The Savannah Project (Jake Pendleton series)

by Chuck Barrett

  The Persian.

  He moved silently along the tops of the crates, stalking his prey. When he was in the right position, he dove toward the Persian from six feet behind and ten feet above.

  The Persian heard him too late and Kaplan knew it. By the time the Iranian spun around, Kaplan was on top of him, knocking the gun free from his hands. The gun slid twenty feet down the floor and out of reach for both of them.

  Now it was hand to hand combat, Kaplan’s forte. The two men rolled on the floor and Kaplan punched the Persian mercilessly in the kidneys, bruising them. He groaned. Kaplan landed his right elbow into Nasiri’s jaw, knocking out three teeth.

  The Persian grunted and rolled over on his stomach, spitting blood and teeth onto the stone floor. He pushed himself up with his hands and knees.

  Kaplan moved forward and kicked him with tremendous force in his enormous gut. The Persian fell on his back.

  He stepped back, rubbing his fist. He heard another gunshot, and glanced in that direction as he heard Laurence O’Rourke yell. A good sign, he hoped.

  Kaplan heard the Persian move and then heard a familiar click. He wheeled around to see the Persian make a roundhouse swing at Kaplan’s mid-section with a switchblade.

  He instinctively arched his body and jumped back at the same time, barely avoiding the sharp blade of the knife. He hated knife fights. He’d been in his fair share in Panama. Statistically, his chances were better against the gun. When shooting at a moving target, people miss more often than they hit. A knife is different. If it touches, it cuts. It cuts veins and vessels and arteries and tendons and ligaments. A knife can do debilitating damage even with little or no skill.

  The Persian slashed at him feverishly while Kaplan ducked and dodged, evading the switchblade. Kaplan’s boot slipped slightly causing him to double-step to catch his balance. The Persian jabbed the blade straight into Kaplan’s chest. The tip of the blade stuck in his vest.

  Kaplan had his opportunity and took it. He turned, grabbed the Persian’s wrist with one hand and placed his arm over the man’s arm. Now they stood side by side. He jammed Nasiri’s wrist into his own upward moving knee, knocking the switchblade from the man’s grip—shattering the bones in the Persian’s wrist.

  Kaplan shoved Nasiri backward with his extended leg, laying him flat on his back. With his free hand, he picked up the knife and plunged it into the Persian’s abdomen just below the navel. With a downward thrust, Kaplan arced the six-inch blade severing the man’s intestines.

  The Persian lay on the stone floor of the Friar’s Chamber bleeding profusely as entrails pushed through the large gash in his abdomen.

  Kaplan pushed himself away, pulled the blade out of the Persian’s gut and wiped it on the Persian’s clothes. The man yelled something at Kaplan in Farsi. Even though Kaplan couldn’t translate it, he knew its meaning well by the tone in the large man’s voice.

  Kaplan leaned over him, placed the tip of the knife blade between two ribs on Nasiri’s chest and said, “Time to go see Allah, you towel-headed son of a bitch.”

  He plunged the knife blade into the Persian’s heart.

  * * * Jake looked around the crate of SAM-7 launchers and saw Sean O’Rourke prying open a wooden crate with a crowbar in one hand while the other hand clutched his left side, blood oozing through his fingers.

  Jake’s heart raced as he saw the words stamped on the side of the crate: 50 CAL Machine Guns.

  In the distance, Jake heard the Persian make a blood curdling scream. Kaplan has done his job.

  O’Rourke looked in the direction of the Persian’s scream, his back to Jake. Jake had to move fast before O’Rourke turned around—he only had a second.

  He stood up from behind the crate, aimed at Sean and fired. The bullet struck the man in the right side of his chest. Sean O’Rourke dropped to the stone floor.

  O’Rourke spun around as his brother fell to the floor. Then he looked at Jake.

  Jake fired. The bullet struck O’Rourke in the left shoulder. The Irishman fell forward striking his head on a wooden crate, then fell to the floor.

  He heard O’Rourke’s gun bounce across the floor.

  Jake stood up. His adrenaline was pumping. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. Two shots, two O’Rourkes.

  He walked over toward where Sean fell. The man looked up, agony all over his face. Uncanny, Jake thought. A change of hair style, glasses and a few pounds and Sean and Laurence could pass as twins.

  He stared at Sean O’Rourke, the resemblance of the brothers fueled his rage once again and the events played through his mind. He saw Beth fall to the floor, blood spurting from her neck. He could hear himself screaming again. The same light-headed feeling overtook him and he wobbled slightly on his feet.

  As Jake faltered, Sean stretched out his hand toward his gun.

  Jake never flinched. “Oh no you don’t.” He raised his gun and fired one round into Sean’s forehead.

  Jake walked around the corner of the crates, gun pointed toward the place where the other O’Rourke had fallen.

  The spot was empty. A puddle of blood on the stone floor.

  CHAPTER 74

  Hunt heard the popping of silenced gunfire. Excruciating pain in her left leg consumed her. Jake had moved her out of the line of fire then he disappeared. He was better than she’d given him credit.

  The first bullet in her leg had grazed the outside of her lower thigh, in and out, a clean wound. It would leave a scar but it didn’t hit any muscle.

  She had taken two more shots into the same thigh. One had grazed the outside of her leg just below the hip bone. It was a flesh wound.

  The other was much more serious. That bullet buried itself deep inside her upper thigh. It did damage going in. It hit bone, she was sure. Her leg was on fire. She felt the back of her leg, no exit wound.

  Jake told her to use the integrated tourniquet system imbedded in her Blackhawk clothes. She had never used it before now. Hunt lifted the flap on her cargo pants and flipped over the carbon fiber bar. She pulled the tactical nylon tight, then slowly started turning the twist bar until she noticed cessation of blood flow in her wounds.

  She heard more popping sounds of silenced gunfire and secured the twist bar.

  She worried about Jake and Kaplan. They were in way over their heads. What happened to Sterling? Where was he? She was sure she had heard his voice.

  Jake and Kaplan were along as backup and support for Hunt as well as for identification purposes, but she realized they made a good team. She could tell Jake was a smart man and a quick study, but he wasn’t an operative and had received only cursory training at best. She feared his training might give him a false sense of security and his overconfidence in his abilities might be his undoing.

  And now he and Kaplan were in a shootout with an assassin, a known IRA hit man, the Chief of Staff of the Provisional IRA, and the ruthless Persian, Farid Nasiri. Even a seasoned operative in the clandestine service wouldn’t stand much of a chance stacked against those odds. Hunt knew Jake couldn’t last long unless Kaplan’s Special Forces training saved him.

  She was still wearing her headset and started calling for Jake. He didn’t answer. She called for Kaplan—no response.

  Hunt heard footsteps. The footsteps kept getting closer. She pushed herself backwards across the cold stone floor, dragging her limp left leg. Her energy was draining fast. She pushed until her path was blocked by a wall of crates, each crate marked Makarov Pistols. She had backed herself into a corner with no avenue of escape.

  Gregg Kaplan came around the crates, carrying Matthew Sterling over his shoulder. He placed Sterling on the stone floor next to her.

  “Where’s Jake?” Kaplan asked.

  “I don’t know. He moved me in here then took off. Where’s Nasiri?”

  “I’m afraid Al Qaeda will have to look for another arms dealer.”

  He stood up, saying, “If you’re okay, I’m going to find Jake—and a gun.”

  “I
’m okay. Kaplan, find him before they do. Bentley will kill me if something happens to him.”

  As Kaplan turned around to run, they heard a muffled pop. Kaplan grabbed his leg and fell to the floor. “Shit,” he yelled.

  Blood oozed through his fingers.

  Another pop.

  Blood flew from his shoulder. He fell back against the crates with a heavy grunt.

  “Kaplan, no!’ Hunt screamed.

  Pop, pop.

  Kaplan’s body bounced as two more shots slammed into his chest. His head dropped as he fell unconscious.

  She saw a tall figure walking toward her, pointing his gun directly at her.

  Laurence O’Rourke.

  Panic filled her body.

  She was going to die.

  They were going to die.

  O’Rourke raised the gun and pointed the silencer at her head.

  She closed her eyes.

  She heard the pop, pop, and flinched.

  CHAPTER 75

  Jake watched O’Rourke fall to the stone floor of the Friar’s Chamber. Blood spurted from both sides of his neck. The same wound he’d inflicted on Beth.

  How fitting. An eye for an eye. A flood of guilt washed over Jake as he realized he was so far from Beth.

  Jake walked to O’Rourke and stood over him. The Irishman’s throat gurgled as the blood drained from his body. The puddle under his body now flowed all the way to the man’s shoes. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out but blood.

  With each remaining breath, O’Rourke sucked in blood, then coughed, spewing blood over his face.

  Jake knelt down next to him. “It’s time for you to die, asshole. And I want your killer’s face—my face—to be your last memory on earth. The depths of Hell are waiting for you.”

  He watched O’Rourke turn pale, then ashen as all the blood left his body. He’d be damned if he would lift a finger to save O’Rourke. Jake had played this scenario over and over in his mind. Revenge.

  He’d wanted it desperately, but now … he felt nothing.

  A crimson river ran along the stone floor disappearing beneath a crate of Armalite M-16A2 rifles.

  Laurence O’Rourke died with his pistol in his hand. Jake picked it up and tucked it inside his belt.

  Jake turned away from him and stood up. He walked over to where Hunt was lying. He found Kaplan and Sterling next to her— the men unconscious.

  “Are they alive?” Jake asked.

  “I think so. Sterling looks pretty bad though.”

  “How’s your leg?”

  “Hurts like hell, but I think I’ll live.”

  He checked for blood flow and saw very little. “I need to get you to a hospital soon or you might lose that leg.”

  “Check on them first. They need your help more than I do right now. Then we’ll get out of here.”

  He checked Sterling’s wound. A nasty gunshot to his side. The entry point, not so bad, but the exit wound was a mess.

  Kaplan groaned as he regained consciousness. The shoulder wound was superficial, the leg wound more serious.

  He grabbed Kaplan’s ITS flap and said, “You want me to do this for you or can you handle this one yourself?”

  “I’ll handle it, sailor boy,” he grinned.

  Kaplan motioned with his head, “The bad guys, all dead?”

  “The O’Rourke brothers are dead. I watched them both die. What about the Persian?”

  “Let’s just say Nasiri didn’t have guts enough to fight. What about Collins? Did you see him anywhere?”

  “I shot him in the head. I thought he was dead, didn’t you see him over there when you came up?” Jake pointed to where he shot Collins.

  “No. Are you sure that’s where you shot him?”

  “Shit.” Jake looked around. “He may still be alive.”

  “Jake, be careful.” Hunt said.

  “Right.” Jake stood up, unholstered his pistol and walked around the stack of crates to where Collins fell.

  Ian Collins was gone.

  Jake followed the smeared trail of blood. It led to a third smaller tunnel. He retrieved his flashlight from the pouch on his pants leg, then proceeded to follow Collins’ blood trail.

  Thirty feet into the tunnel he could hear the sounds of the River Bonet reverberating through the tunnel. That’s all he could hear. Jake kept the beam of the light shining forward until the ambient light near the end of the tunnel lit the rest of the way.

  When he reached the end of the tunnel, he noticed several large rocks and stones had been pushed to one side. Blood smeared on the rocks assured Jake that Collins had indeed escaped the secret chamber through this friars’ tunnel.

  Dawn had come and gone and the early morning sun was bright. The sky was clear. A cool gentle breeze blew through the river valley. The only sounds were those of the waters of the River Bonet cascading over the rocks in the river bed and the birds chirping in the trees.

  The blood stains led down a steep rocky bank to the river, where they stopped. Jake walked upstream and downstream but couldn’t find any trace of Collins.

  The one man CIA Director Scott Bentley desperately wanted to capture alive had now disappeared into thin air. Again.

  Ian Collins, aka Shamrock, was a man on the run and, for now, a free man.

  CHAPTER 76

  Two days later, Jake entered Sligo General hospital. He knocked on Kaplan’s door as he walked in. “How’s the leg?”

  Kaplan was fully dressed, sitting in a chair holding Annie’s cross. He closed it tight in the palm of his hand. “It’s fine. In no time, I’ll be back on the dance floor.”

  Jake looked at Kaplan’s closed fist. “You miss her?”

  “I have mixed emotions. We were together a long time. Of course, I’ll miss her. Annie and I had a lot of good memories. But she kept her past a close secret. She never let go. Everybody has baggage in life, it’s always there. But most of us put the baggage in the trunk where it belongs, not in the front seat where it gets in the way.”

  “Damn, Gregg. That’s some pretty deep shit. Where’d you come up with that? Is it some of that Army psychobabble?”

  “Nah, I think I heard it on Dr. Phil. It didn’t make sense then either.”

  “Well, are you going to be able to put her behind you? Can you put this in the trunk?”

  “How about I start with my back pocket and go from there?” Kaplan leaned forward and slipped the cross into his back pants pocket.

  Jake smiled. “Let’s go see Isabella.”

  “Okay.”

  He rapped on Hunt’s hospital room door as he opened it. “Isabella, it’s Jake, can I come in? I brought Gregg with me.”

  “If I say no, will you go away?” Hunt laughed.

  He walked in, with Kaplan two paces behind him on crutches.

  She smiled. “The doctors said I can leave tonight as long as the Company puts me in the hospital as soon as we arrive in D.C.”

  “I figured as much when Bentley said he would see all three of us tomorrow morning,” Jake replied. “What did they say about your leg?”

  “Two were flesh wounds. Physical therapy for the other. When the doctors retrieved the bullet they said it was a clean wound with minimal damage to muscle tissue. It lodged against the bone, but didn’t do any damage. He said I was lucky, another centimeter and the bullet would have hit an artery and I would have bled to death.” She paused. “Thank you, Jake. Thanks for saving my life. Thanks to both of you. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

  She looked at Kaplan. “What about you? How are your injuries?”

  “The shoulder’s nothing but a scratch. My leg hurts like hell, but the doctor says it’s not that bad. Certainly nothing like yours. I’ll be as good as new in no time.”

  Hunt’s brow furrowed. “Have they cleaned up the mess in the chamber?”

  Jake looked at her. “The housekeepers came and the place is spotless. Everything’s gone. Weapons, files, wires. It’s like the friars left it—dusty.
All the entrances have been closed and permanently sealed. Orders are ‘nothing was found.’ You were shot trying to stop an assassination attempt. The assassin fled the scene.”

  Hunt smirked. “My, my, isn’t SIS efficient.”

  “It was our housekeepers, not theirs,” Jake replied. “There will be a news release about it later today.”

  “What about Sterling? How’s he doing?” she asked.

  “He was in bad shape,” Jake replied. “They already flew him back to London.”